


Burning Bright

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Fearful Symmetry [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a proposition and makes a rash decision and a new acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mid-October was boring. Lestrade had nothing. Nothing interesting from their stream of private would-be clients. Jim Moriarty was no more than the occasional glimpse of a shadow in the background of organised crime. The weather had turned wet and windy and Sherlock spent long hours pacing the flat and snarling at John. He was tempted to find some opiates to play with, but there would be inordinate fuss. 

It was nearly four am on a Wednesday morning when Sherlock finally retreated reluctantly to his bedroom to seek some elusive sleep. John had been snoring upstairs for several hours already. There was nothing interesting left about being awake.

A shockingly red envelope lay on his pillow. No indication that the window had been opened, and there was a drop of two storeys underneath it. Access from above, possibly. More likely that the intruder had come up the stairs, but how had he got past Sherlock in the living room? Picked his moment, while Sherlock used the bathroom, possibly. There were other possibilities. It didn't matter.

That part of the message, the "look what I can do" was trivial. Only Moriarty would have done it, and if it was Jim of course he could do it. No new data there.

Sherlock flicked the envelope over, found a paperknife to open it. Heavyweight stationery, very expensive, very nice. He was aware that his heart rate had increased. He'd been waiting months for this.

A handwritten note on embossed card. Eminently traceable, one would think. One would be wrong.

"October is boring, isn't it? The real game will be worth every bit of the wait, I promise you. But maybe you and I should get together for a little fling now, just to pass the time? Let me know."

A fling? Fun and games or a sexual affair? Sherlock suspected the ambiguity was intended. The answer should obviously be no. One didn't entangle oneself with Moriarty unnecessarily. 

He ran his finger over the embossed surface. Clearly phrased as an offer. If Jim had wanted him, Jim could have taken him off the street any day, without asking first. "Just to pass the time." He found himself inclined to believe that was not the least of Moriarty's motives.

What would he give up if he said yes? His consent was clearly significant. A contest of wills; he could win that. And more contact meant more data. 

He was bored. Moriarty knew that. He was curious. Jim must have guessed that much. He was inexperienced, through choice, but this wasn't necessarily a weakness. He was used to keeping his sexual impulses completely under control and in Jim Moriarty's bed that had to be a strength. There was no-one else to protect or to consider, this time. Why shouldn't he? 

Sherlock amended his recently dormant blog with a single affirmative, sent a brief encoded email to Mycroft letting him know that he might be absent for a while. He wrote a note for John, put it in an addressed envelope in his own pocket. He had no idea yet when or how this encounter would start. Finally he hid the invite carefully away in his room.

For the next couple of days nothing unusual happened. Sherlock fielded a phonecall from his curious brother, managed to give the impression that his possible absence had something to do with a newfound sexual interest in his flatmate. Mycroft seemed quite pleased with that idea, oddly, and he wouldn't start interrogating John directly now. John just seemed relieved that Sherlock had got over the worst of his temper.

 

Saturday evening. John was out, meeting yet another potential girlfriend. Sherlock spent an hour or so finishing up some cautionary research on sexual sadism before deciding that he was wasting his time. It all seemed drearily formulaic and not remotely like Jim; Moriarty surely had something more interesting planned. He closed the laptop decisively, pulled on scarf and coat and went out for a walk. 

Three hundred yards down Baker Street someone spoke clearly behind his left ear.

"Follow me,"

A man of about his own height and build pushed past him, strode quickly down the pavement, slowing after a few seconds so that Sherlock could follow without changing his own pace. Neatly done. He made his way through the heavy pedestrian traffic after the high sided black boots (expensive brand but practical, well worn), and the dark brown trenchcoat, the military-short brown hair and the hands hanging empty by the sides, fingers curled a little in tension. Easy to read, that tension. Carrying a weapon somewhere on his person, and accustomed to using it.

Sherlock dropped the note for John off in the lap of a young woman begging, along with a five pound note. She nodded briefly at him, tucking both away from the onlookers; it would get home before John did.

They took a side road, and another. The man walked purposefully through the thick Saturday night crowds around a cluster of nightclubs and down a narrow alleyway and Sherlock trailed him ten yards behind. Following an armed stranger off Mycroft's surveillance network and to wherever Jim Moriarty was; this was not boring at all.

The man stopped at an unmarked door and Sherlock glanced upwards; a mixture of offices and small warehouse. The unlocked side door led only to stairs downwards. He stepped in, past the stranger, noting automatically the gun inside the open coat, the knife at the man's belt. Loaded for bear, not a walk along Baker Street.

The door was locked behind him and the man flicked a light switch. "After you." His voice was steady. Older that Sherlock, but not by much. Clipped English of the upper classes, with a clear military patina. Sherlock took the concrete stairs rapidly, neck pricking at the presence of the weapons behind him.

The first room was an office. The soldier turned the lights on; the place was obviously deserted. No Moriarty yet then.

"Sit down, Mr Holmes." He gestured at one of the two chairs, took off his coat, the gun now visible in the shoulder holster, then turned to switch on the silver kettle.

Sherlock remained standing by the door, assessing. The furniture had been brought in recently, as the marks of the old desk and cabinet on the carpet showed, but it wasn't brand new. Good quality, but not excessively so; solid oak, not walnut or mahogany. One desk, one chair behind it and two in front. A filing cabinet that seemed to make too light an impression on the carpet to have much in. Two slim manilla folders on the windowsill. An unshowy but expensive laptop.

There was a strong smell of oil based paint, but this room hadn't been painted for years. Traces of white dust tracked into the carpet looked like plaster, thicker around the door in the far wall. Something through there had been redecorated in the last few days. Interesting. 

"Tea or coffee?"

Sherlock hesitated fractionally, but the time for absolute caution was past. "Coffee, milk, no sugar."

He took the plain white mug, sat down. The other man sat behind the desk as if he was used to being there and watched him. After a moment the man smiled; amusement, not amiability. 

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"He said you'd either come in here and tell me what I'd had for breakfast, or you'd be quiet. And if you weren't showing off I should watch you like a fucking hawk, Mr Holmes.

"Full English," Sherlock said, automatically. "You don't usually, you weren't staying away from home, certainly not a date in those clothes, so a business meeting. Getting final instructions from Moriarty?"

The man's smile widened. "That's a useless piece of information. You must drown in trivia. My name's Moran and, yes, I have very precise instructions as to what to do with you."

He pulled out a blister pack of tablets from his pocket. "Take three of these."

Sherlock turned the pack over in his hands. Assuming that the contents were the originals, they were made by a minor Irish drugs company, known for generics. He pushed a tablet out; a small round sugar coated pill. 

"What are they?"

"Harmless. They're sold over the counter."

"I can think of a dozen OTC medicines that are far from harmless. What do they do?"

Moran stared at him, flatly. He had sharp blue eyes. "Take them."

"And if I don't?"

"Then it will be considerably longer until I can report back that my instructions have been carried out in full. Timing, Mr Holmes, that's all. Causing you physical harm isstrictly forbidden at this point in my instructions, unless in extremis."

Sherlock prised a couple of tablets out, pushed them across the desk. Moran picked up one and swallowed it, washed it down with his coffee. 

It meant very little. They'd had time to prepare, and one tablet wasn't three. Still, Moran hadn't hesitated at all. Not many men could take poison without blanching, even with an antidote to hand. 

"Are they psychotropic?"

"Not at all."

"Sedative?"

"No. Enough guessing. Take them."

Sherlock didn't want to spend time arguing with this Moran. He was here to see Jim. "Very well." 

He swallowed the tablets. Moran nodded in satisfaction, sat back in his chair, finishing his coffee, waiting for something. 

Within a couple of minutes Sherlock was stifling yawns. "You said they weren't sedating!" He'd not spotted any signs that the man was lying to him.

"They aren't. The stuff in your coffee, on the other hand, is about to knock you out completely." Moran came round to Sherlock's side of the desk, wrapped an arm around unresisting shoulders and tipped him forwards to sprawl over the desk. "Sleep well."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke to the noise of air conditioning. For a second he didn't remember where he'd gone to sleep. That man Moran, and something in his coffee. 

He lay still, processing. He was lying naked on a hard surface, in a bright artificially lit room. There was distant traffic noise, and the hum of the AC unit, nothing else. The air temperature was comfortable. His stomach spasmed, painful. The smell of days-old paint was evident.

He opened his eyes, sat up, looked round. The observations weren't comforting.

The room measured around fifteen by twelve foot, painted white with white ceramic tiles on the floor. A short length of chain was looped around an iron circlet welded in a single piece around his ankle, then secured by a heavy duty padlock to a hook set centrally in the floor. A glance told him that escape without the key would be remarkably difficult.

The tiles sloped down slightly to an open drain in the floor at one end, well out of his reach. At the other end there was a large metal sink with two taps, a long length of hose and a spool of chain identical to the one holding him fast. There was a hook set into the ceiling directly above him with an identical padlock attached. A camera blinked red in one corner of the ceiling. Two door in opposite walls were both closed. 

His stomach twisted again and he felt the need to relieve himself urgently. The tablets were identified; laxatives, too many. Humiliation, he wondered? But this was bodily function, nothing more. Having to defecate on the floor in front of a camera was hardly going to shake his sense of self worth. Jim knew that.

He was starting to perspire. There was no point in fighting this; it would just get messy and unpleasant. He moved as far downwards from the hook as he could and let his bodily functions take over. 

Eventually, weak and sweating, he concluded that there was nothing more to come. He moved away as far as his short chain would allow and sat waiting.

After about five minutes the door by the taps opened.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes." Moran had changed his shirt and shaved since they last met. Three faint white scars ran unevenly across one cheek; old shrapnel injuries. Both gun and knife had disappeared. He was carrying a high sided cardboard box which he placed on the floor next to the sink. Neither Sherlock's nakedness nor the smell seemed to affect him.

"How long?"

"About fourteen hours." It must be just past noon. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his bare knees and watched Moran hose down the floor, keeping well out of his captive's reach, and spray it with disinfectant. 

"Where's Moriarty?"

Moran glanced over at him, expressionless. "You'll see him when he wants you to." The disinfectant went back in the box and a plastic water bottle came out. "Catch."

Sherlock sniffed at the pink solution. Horrible sweet stuff. He curled a lip in dislike. "What about water?"

"You won't rehydrate fast enough on water alone. Drink that."

"What's the point of all this, Moran?"

Moran shook his head. "I don't make points, Mr Holmes. I follow orders. I'll be back later. Drink the stuff." 

The door closed leaving Sherlock alone again.

Over the next few hours his bowels did their best to expel absolutely everything. Moran came back three times to clean up the increasingly small and watery messes on the tiles and to provide more unpleasant raspberry flavoured drink and a bottle of Lucozade.

"I'd prefer a coffee."

"I'll make you one when you've drunk all that."

Food was not on offer, and the provision of energy drinks suggested that it wasn't going to be. Sherlock sipped at the sugary stuff with dislike.

"You're a very efficient janitor, Moran. Is mopping up shit your usual job?" 

Moran's mouth twisted, not entirely amused. "No comment, Mr Holmes. Finish both bottles and you can have that coffee." He picked up his cardboard box and walked out.

 

The coffee was hot and strong. Sherlock was well aware that his transient feeling of gratitude was an artefact of captivity. Still, it was convenient to react that way, so his thanks at least sounded sincere.

"What happens now?"

Moran reached into his cardboard box again, took out a brightly coloured box and slid it across the floor to Sherlock, who looked at the printed cover and shook his head.

"No." He was aware that these things could be used in connection with sex, but... no.

Moran looked briefly sympathetic, but his voice was unyielding. "It's not optional, Mr Holmes. This is one of the circumstances in which my instructions allow me to hurt you, if necessary. I imagine that on consideration you will decide that you would prefer to self-administer. The instructions are straightforward. You have sixty minutes."

Sherlock watched the man, surprisingly difficult to read. Was Moran the perfect henchman that he appeared? What were his weaknesses? "You know my reputation. IDon't you worry that I'll track you down later, Moran? Is this worth the prison term?"

"Prison term?" Moran sounded genuinely surprised. "For what? Didn't you walk in here of your own free will, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock contemplated that for a second. "I've been drugged and chained to the floor since then."

"I haven't heard any protests," Moran pointed out. 

Of course he hadn't. There had been obviously no point in protesting. Still. "Let me go."

"No." Moran smiled briefly at him. "You want to see the boss, and he wants to see you. Sixty minutes, after which I immobilise you and apply that thing myself." 

Sherlock needed to know more of how Moran operated and he didn't feel obliging. By the time the door opened again the enema kit was ripped apart beyond reuse and Sherlock was back on his heels, waiting.

"Not that easy." Moran took a second kit out of the cardboard box. "Going to co-operate?"

Sherlock regarded him with disdain.

Moran picked up the end of the hose. "Fine. We'll do it this way instead."

The jet of water was powerful and very cold. Sherlock dropped his head between his knees and wrapped his arms around it for protection but it was still thoroughly unpleasant. Moran walked around him, playing the stream into any potentially vulnerable point. 

After a few minutes Sherlock could feel his core temperature starting to drop. His body was shaking all over. Moran seemed in no hurry to stop. Another five and Sherlock wasn't sure that he could move any more.

Eventually the tap was switched off and he lay curled up on the wet floor, shivering uncontrollably. The room had turned bitterly cold. Moran's voice came close to him. "This place used to be used for meat storage. It still has a very effective refrigeration unit. Once we're done with this I'll reset the heating and you can have a hot drink."

A hand in Sherlock's hair tugged him forwards to lie face down. He struggled weakly but the cold had got everywhere inside him and all he could really do was shiver. He could hear Moran assembling the kit behind him. There ought to be a chance to turn and overpower the man but he was as weak as a kitten and the refrigeration was on. He needed Moran to turn it off or he would die chained up.

The discomfort of the enema was nothing compared to the symptoms of incipient hypothermia. Sherlock was beyond struggling. Eventually the man cleaned up the floor yet again and left. The noise of the fan changed, the air started to warm slightly and Moran came back with a thick blanket.

"Sit up." He wrapped the blanket around Sherlock's stiff body. "I'll bring coffee."

Coffee came, the room warmed and eventually Sherlock stopped shivering. Moran had brought a chair through to keep watch in person, now nodded in satisfaction, "I'll be back later. Drink some more." Another bottle was rolled along the floor towards Sherlock and the door was closed.

Time to review his situation. 

It had been over twenty four hours since he'd eaten, but that itself wouldn't be causing a problem. The induced diarrhoea had caused some dehabilitation, but under Moran's nagging he'd replaced lost fluids and electrolytes effectively. The mild hypothermia had left him shaky and weak, but that would normally clear fast. The enema was harmless. Nothing major at all, but the cumulative psychological effect, adding in the chain round his ankle and the nakedness, might be devastating, had he been prone to psychological devastation. As it was he felt irritated. No, annoyed. Which was not helpful when dealing with Moriarty.

Sherlock set himself to push the annoyance away for a while and think.

This room, set up in the last few days, coinciding with Jim's invitation. The only feature not so far used was the hook above him and that might well be a contingency measure. Sherlock very much doubted that the rest of his encounter with Moriarty would take place in here; there wasn't anything else here for the man to use. There would he somewhere else, equally fitted out for purpose. So at some point he'd be unchained and moved.

That would be his chance to escape. If he wanted to escape. There would be a definite feeling of anti-climax now to running home without even seeing Jim Moriarty, but on the other hand this wasn't exactly going well for him. He wasn't sure yet what he was going to do.

When Moran returned with the familiar cardboard box the knife was back in his belt. He took a long curve around the extent of Sherlock's chain to place the box by the far door. Then he returned to the taps and tossed something small through the air to Sherlock.

The key to the padlock. Sherlock unlocked it with hands still clumsy from the earlier cold, keeping an eye on Moran all the time. The chain came off his fetter and he was loose. 

"Your clothes are in the box." Moran's knife was in his hand.

Sherlock gestured at it contemptuously. "That's certainly not in Moriarty's instructions. You might as well put it away now."

"I've no intention of getting jumped, Mr Holmes. I can easily stop you without causing permanent damage. The boss will understand."

"You think Jim Moriarty is the understanding kind? So much as a scratch on me and you're in serious trouble. And after you were doing so well, too." He dropped his voice a little. "Put the knife away or I might put you in a position where you have to use it."

For the first time a flicker of uncertainty came over Moran's face. He was clearly regretting unchaining Sherlock so soon; the weapon had been his leverage. But after a brief pause he sheathed it. Not stupid, this one.

"Out of temptation's reach, Moran." Sherlock had started to dress, the ring on his ankle a minor inconvenience.

Moran stalked back into the office and Sherlock heard a desk drawer open then slam shut, the key turning. The gun would be in the same drawer. Right hand side.

Neither of them were armed or restrained now. Sherlock was somewhat weakened by his experiences, but he had the advantage of being able to damage Moran as much as he needed to. Moran had to be more careful. An even contest, then. He usually won those.

Sherlock finished putting on his shoes, shrugged on his coat, feeling the reassuring weight of his phone in the pocket, and stuffed the scarf in his pocket. "Where are you supposed to be taking me now?"

"There's a car waiting."

"You'll have to do better than that."

Moran shook his head. "You're not going to walk out of here with an address. If you want to find him, you come with me."

"Voluntarily?"

Moran's mouth twisted. "It seems so."

Sherlock regarded him. Useful bargaining chip, or would Jim sacrifice the man without hesitation? He could leave his captor chained up and soaked through with the chiller unit running as a message to Moriarty, but Sherlock suspected that Jim would only find that amusing, regardless of whether Moran survived the experience or not. 

Sherlock wouldn't find breaking this tool particularly satisfying; Moran had been efficient, not sadistic. Jim, on the other hand; Sherlock was starting to get a number of ideas about what he wanted to happen when he met up with Jim Moriarty again. There was still an iron ring around his ankle, reminder that Moriarty really wasn't playing nice.

His empty gut ached. He knew he wasn't going to walk away now. Get on with it.

"Very well. Lead on."


	3. Chapter 3

The five star country hotel, provided, according to the website on Sherlock's phone, golf, tennis, Michelin dining and an excellent spa. The lights in the fine Georgian building were all bright but the guest carpark was empty apart from one black limousine by the entrance.

Sherlock flicked through his texts while he and Moran walked inside. Both John and Mycroft were enquiring about his whereabouts but with more irritation than concern. He left them unanswered, for now, turned the alerts and ring tones off. 

It appeared from the genuine welcome from the hotel manager that Moriarty must have actually paid for exclusive use of the place, or at least promised to. Moran waved the staff away; he knew where he was going. There were signs up; after a couple of turnings Sherlock had got the idea as well. He sniffed the chlorine in faint appreciation as they pushed through double doors and into the wide vault of the swimming pool.

Jim was swimming, an inefficient schoolboy breaststroke, breaking the water with surprisingly muscled arms, in long baggy white swimming shorts. Sherlock took one of the comfortable poolside chairs and watched him make his splashy way up to the deep end. Moran had remained at the doorway, very obviously keeping guard; he'd taken his gun back as they'd left the basement offices. Sherlock had let him; Moran wasn't going to shoot him, after all.

Moriarty reached the end and rested with his arms over the pool edge, looking sideways towards Sherlock. He was slightly out of breath, black hair plastered down over his scalp.

"There you are at last. Fancy a dip? The water's extremely well filtered. I did check."

Sherlock snorted, stayed seated. He glanced over his shoulder as the doors swung shut; Moran, leaving.

"Odd thing, sanitisation obsessions. Kinks, you would call them, when applied to sexual matters." He smiled coldly at Moriarty. "Some people really can't bear the idea of coming into contact with other people's germ-laden bodies and will go to remarkable lengths to sterilise their sexual experiences. If they are insecure they may well find it impossible to discuss their feelings of unease and disgust with their partners, leading to controlling, obsessive and in some cases frankly deranged behaviour."

Moriarty's brown eyes were gleaming. Sherlock stood up, walked to the edge of the pool and crouched down in front of the man in the water.

"You, on the other hand, are merely pretending. Why did you pick that particular game to play, Jim? I can think of several that would have been at least as unpleasant, and a lot less trouble to set up."

"It's not always all about you, Sherlock." Moriarty reached out a hand and Sherlock helped him scramble out of the water.

"Ah." He glanced back at the doors. "Moran."

"Dear Sebastian. It makes such a difference to have a sniper one can completely rely on. You know, of course; you've already had the chance to admire his work. An amazing career history too; look him up when you get home; you'll be impressed. So many dead people."

"But?"

"But Seb has been employee of the week rather too often recently. He was starting to get a little bumptious." Jim wrapped a hotel towel around his shoulders. "I do need a shower now. Chlorine is ugh."

Sherlock couldn't really imagine ever describing the man in the basement as bumptious. "Hence the job cleaning up excrement."

"I thought you two might bond over it?"

"I don't 'bond' with anyone," Sherlock pointed out. "Particularly not professional killers who chain me up in basements. I would like this thing round my ankle removed."

"Not before I've had a chance to admire it, surely? I'd invite you into my shower but I fear you're not in the mood quite yet. Seb will show you up to our room and you can settle in before dinner. I imagine you're probably got an appetite by now." He pattered off towards the showers.

Our room? Sherlock sighed. What was he doing here? Never mind. At least he wasn't bored.

 

Walking up to the bedrooms, Sherlock thought he detected a change in Moran. A newfound stiffness. Of course the man would have been listening in. 

"I imagine," he started, casually, "that the remuneration package would have to be very significant indeed. Given the working conditions."

Moran chuckled. "Wondering whether to feel sorry for me? Don't bother. It is. I would save that sympathy if I were you. Sometime around 3am you might be begging for the basement back."

"Bitter experience, Sebastian?"

Moran turned to look at him, blue eyes direct. "Somehow, Mr Holmes, I imagine that I'm a great deal better at taking orders than you are. I work for a man who appreciates that ability. If you think for one moment that our situations are in any way comparable you're a fool. But then you're here, aren't you? Point made."

"I thought you didn't make points, Moran? Just followed orders?"

Moran turned on his heel. "This way." He strode down the soft carpeted corridor, back straight. 

 

Jim's room- their room- was a mess, even by Sherlock's standards. Clothes, shoes, accessories strewn over every surface. He stepped inside and closed the door firmly on Moran. Treat it as a crime scene; observe before disturbing.

The clothing all seemed to be Moriarty's size, if in a bewildering variety of styles. Golfing and tennis clothes, pyjamas, formalwear, t-shirts and ripped jeans and a black leather biker's jacket were all in evidence. There was a muddy hiking boot lying on top of a crumpled silk kimono in the middle of the four poster bed, and a huge tiger skin rug, head still attached, underneath the window. No more than ten years old, Sherlock estimated, and thoroughly illegal to possess.

Sherlock moved around the room carefully, touching nothing. Not all the chains were jewellery. A bag of sex toys appeared to have been upended on one of the sofas. Sherlock knew what most of them were for; he could check the others on his phone. There were restraints, some more luxurious and others significantly less comfortable than his anklet. He looked closer; most of the items had seen use at some point. Probably not acquired just to try to spook him, then. 

A small number of cosmetics sat on various surfaces. An unmarked tub of what appeared to be water based lubricant had the lid askew. Sherlock sniffed at it, nose wrinkling at the strong and unpleasant animal musk. Unusual.

An orange iPod with a tangle of headphones shared a silver bowl on the desk with a variety of fresh fruit and a snub handgun, loaded. Not likely to be courtesy of the hotel management, that last item. A glint of metal under a discarded shirt turned out to be a laptop. Sherlock's fingers itched, but now wasn't the time.

One wardrobe door was ajar; Sherlock prised it open with a cautious finger. The clothes inside were neatly hung and folded, and mostly familiar. He reached in to run his fingers over a dinner jacket. Not his, but a duplicate. And he'd never owned red leather trousers, or black silk pyjamas, or whatever this thing with a large number of buckles and not very much material between them might be called.

The wardrobe contents confirmed that he was in the right place, at least for some very outre definition of right. And if this was his room he was going to lay claim to at least part of it. Sherlock started pushing assorted detritus off the sofa by his wardrobe. When that was empty he moved onto the stuff on the bed, until precisely one half was clear. Then he put the clothes that he considered suitable for dinner out on that side of the counterpane and took a shower.

He heard the door from the corridor open and close. Sherlock refused to leave the hot water. It was the first small amount of physical comfort he'd had since leaving Baker Street. Ten minutes later the door opened and closed again.

He was unsurprised when he emerged from the bathroom to find the room empty again, and a wet hotel towel dropped carelessly, or more likely deliberately, over his clean clothes. Some of Moriarty's clothes had been rescattered about. Sherlock could have worked out which the man had taken but he decided not to care. He'd have plenty of opportunity to admire Jim's sartorial elegance over dinner. He tossed the towel back onto the messy side of the bed and dressed methodically. Then he picked up his phone and started to work.

The knock came a few minutes later. Sherlock shoved the phone in his pocket and answered the door.

Moran. "Downstairs." The tone was the authoritative one he'd used in the basement. He'd showered and changed too, but only into another pair of jeans and a thick plain blue shirt. A jacket hid the shoulder holster from casual observers.

Sherlock kept up with the man's long paces. "Sebastian Moran. I looked you up, as Jim suggested. Do you still use the Colonel?"

"Sometimes." Moran was brief. 

"It sound impressive, certainly. Of course mercenary armies tend to go in for rank inflation. You were only a major when you left the British Army. Cheating at cards; a rather old fashioned scandal for a young man. You still gamble, obviously. And still cheat. Helpful to have Moriarty as a backer in that situation, I imagine."

"I can look after myself, Mr Holmes," Moran muttered. 

"And a long line of dead bodies to prove it. Not to mention the tiger, reputedly. Nonetheless, you could have an empire of your own and instead you're carrying messages and cleaning floors for Jim. A man like you doesn't operate on personal loyalties, and Moriarty doesn't inspire them. He's providing you with something you need. Money's too easy. Is it protection?"

Moran stopped at the entrance to the dining room. "He's in there." He turned away before Sherlock could speak to him again.

Moriarty was seated at a small candle-lit table. He rose as Sherlock entered, smiling. 

"You look exquisite." He stood on his toes to plant a warm kiss on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock froze for a second without conscious thought, then stepped backwards. Jim raised an eyebrow but didn't try to touch him again. Instead he pulled out the second chair with an elegant gesture.

"I've ordered for both of us. I was sure you wouldn't mind. Champagne?"

"Yes." Sherlock wasn't going to drink much on an empty stomach but a glass wouldn't hurt.

Moriarty sat down again, poured the liquid into the tall glasses. He was dressed in an flared red silk shirt open at the neck to show a heavy gold necklace, tight black chinos and patent leather shoes, his black hair heavily slicked back and gleaming. He looked facile and shallow and Sherlock felt a stir of admiration.

"Sebastian is sulking. What have you been saying to him?"

"He's your henchman. Why do you think it's anything to do with me?"

"Because he's sulking. Do you like him?"

An odd question. Sherlock didn't generally like people, and said so.

"Come on, pet. Just trying to find out what turns you on. I thought a cold blooded killer might do it. He's got pretty eyes and he'd let you play with his gun."

Sherlock repressed a shiver of distaste, not well enough. Moriarty was laughing at him. "As if I'd let anyone else near you tonight." He sipped from the champagne flute. "If Moran casts those sapphire blue eyes in your direction I'll put them out personally, and find myself another sniper."

Sherlock decided to ignore that. A waitress was bringing the starters out and he'd remembered just how hungry he was. Caviar on toast occupied his mouth, if not his thoughts, for several minutes. Jim was giving him sideways glances between tiny bites, oddly- deliberately- unsettling.

Between courses Sherlock thought he might as well try some investigating."So how is ther consulting crime business, then? It's been so quiet that I thought maybe you'd left the country, but I can see you've been in London for the past few months."

Moriarty smiled, teeth showing. "I've been keeping busy. You'll find out, in time."

"I'll look forward to that."

A flash of something dark and satisfied. "Don't."

"More games?"

"They say it's only fun and games until someone gets hurt. But they're wrong. That's when the fun really starts. Doesn't yours look nice?"

Sherlock looked down at the huge steak placed in front of him. His appetite, never particularly strong, had vanished. He never ate steak; he preferred food he could pick at. Moriarty had to know that.

He put up a hand to halt the waitress's retreat. "Take this away and bring me a glass of water."

"Is there something wrong, Sir?" She would be in trouble taking it back untouched to the kitchen, though it couldn't possibly be her fault. Irrelevant.

"Water. In a glass. You do have water, I assume?"

"Yes, Sir." She gave him one last worried glance and left.

Moriarty was giggling. "Rude, Sherlock. She doesn't like you now, you know. Lots of people don't like you. You ought to worry about that. Some day it's going to matter."

Sherlock was suddenly nauseated by the idea of watching Jim eat. "I'm going for a walk." He stood up abruptly and left.

It was windy out in the hotel ground but not raining. Sherlock's coat was back in their room and he didn't have a key. He walked briskly across the golf course in the darkness. Moran would be following him. Jim's faithful hound, but why?

That kiss was still burning his cheek. He'd signed up for more than that. Did Jim Moriarty have the capacity to arouse him? Did he want to be aroused? He wouldn't submit to any of those restraints. He wouldn't submit at all. No more of these games around Jim's control of his life. He would come and go as he pleased, eat when he decided to, wear what he chose and if Moriarty wanted him seduced the man would have to do it on those terms.

He stopped by a flag to wait for his shadow to catch up. Moran came out of the darkness, strides long and regular.

"Mr Holmes."

"The key to my room."

"I'll take you up there."

"Not good enough, Moran. I want the key."

"I only have one, and I need it. You can get another at reception."

Sherlock shook his head. "Yours. Now."

He saw the refusal long before Moran voiced it. Hitting an armed man was always risky, but Moran was a professional. The man's hand jerked towards his gun, stopped, and Sherlock got a second blow to the chest in during the hesitation, saw his opponent go down, gun in his hand as he rolled back onto his feet.

Sherlock held the key card up, extracted from the man's jacket pocket with the second pass. "Thank you." He turned back to the brightly lit hotel. Behind him a hiss of annoyance, but as he'd predicted Moran did nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim wasn't yet back in the hotel room. Sherlock knelt down to gather up the toys and equipment, found a suitcase for them which he tucked away on top of his wardrobe,out of the smaller man's reach. Moriarty's clothes were piled up in the other wardrobe, with the exception of a plain pair of cotton pyjamas which Sherlock left on his pillow, shoes kicked under the bed, jewellery and anything else in another suitcase. The tiger skin was left where it was, for the moment. He unloaded the gun and put it back in the fruit bowl, then opened the laptop on the newly cleared desk.

He was still tussling with the password when the door opened. 

"You moved my stuff!" Indignation turned Jim's voice into a high squeak.

"It was in my way. Is this machine worth the effort of breaking into?"

Jim waved a hand irritably. "Several layers of randomly generated security codes and no short cuts. Don't try to change the subject, Sherlock. I had everything where I wanted it and now look at the place!

Sherlock looked around. "Mmm," he commented, turned back to the computer. "How about if I take it apart?"

"Stop it!" Moriarty seemed genuinely annoyed. It might still be an act. "I invite you here at enormous trouble and expense, and you spurn my dinner, mess around with my things, thump my best sharpshooter and try to break my laptop. You are a dreadfully unsatisfying guest."

Put like that the evening seemed to be going rather well. Better than the day before, certainly. "So call me a taxi," Sherlock suggested cheerfully. "I could be home before midnight."

"Oh, darling," Moriarty was up behind him as he sat at the desk, voice dropping to a purr. Fingers combed through the hair at Sherlock's temple, tugging slightly. Not unpleasant. "You don't want to go anywhere. Not yet."

"No?" Sherlock moved fast, out of the chair, his hand tight on Moriarty's arm. He swung the smaller man around hard, slammed him face down onto the bed, flung himself on top. When he sat up he had a leg each side of the man's ribcage and his weight solidly over the small of Jim's back.

"You might be right." He ran one hand through the greased hair, made it stand up in a peak. Underneath him Moriarty was wrigglIng helplessly, face buried in the thick pillows.

"It's a good bed. We should try it out. What do you think?"

The man underneath managed to turn his head clear of the pillows. "Get off me!"

"Don't tell me that after all this you're just a tease?" He tugged the collar of the open shirt back, slid his fingers under the heavy gold necklace and twisted it tight for a few seconds, then released it.

"We can have more fun if you let me up." That was Jim trying to sound persuasive. Sherlock laughed.

"Fun. That would be the sort where you get your henchman to work me over for twenty four hours first, before I end up in the pretty little handcuffs and you play with a few of those toys. Did you expect me to scream?"

"You don't want to be on top. You don't know what you're doing, pet." Jim was trying not to struggle.

"Wrong on both counts. I'm a virgin, Jim." He extracted his wallet from his pocket, took out the plastic holder for the razor sharp edged card that never got picked up on security checks. "It means I haven't bothered with sexual performances before. It doesn't make me an innocent, or a fool." He started cutting the red material away from Moriarty's shoulders. "Honestly! You'd have to be stupid to think so."

He wasn't stupid himself. Most likely Moran was watching this, a couple of rooms away; Moriarty could summon help if he needed to. That would be undoubtedly a win for Sherlock. He wasn't intending to put the man in fear of his life, just to stay on top and in control. And here was the first twitch of his own erection against the trouser material stretched tight across his groin, right on cue. He knew what sexual scenarios might arouse him, and the ones that involved handcuffs certainly didn't have his own wrists in them.

Moriarty went entirely limp underneath him. Sherlock continued cutting away strips of red shirt, not letting his attention waver. Then Jim rolled his shoulders under Sherlock's hands, whimpering slightly in apparent pleasure.

"Changed your mind already?"

"Yes." Moriarty's voice was husky. "Why don't you do anything you want with me, lover? Anything at all."

It was the feint that it appeared, and genuine. Jim Moriarty was a method actor. If he set himself to play submissive, that's what he would be, until he saw an opening and incentive to change. Or he got bored.

Sherlock didn't intend to be boring. He briefly considered tying the man up, decided against it. Moriarty bound was almost as dangerous as loose and he didn't want to relax his guard. Besides, he didn't want Moran charging in here.

He shifted backwards until he was sitting on Jim's backside and stripped the rest of the red shirt off. Jim's back was waxy smooth, scarless. The outline of his ribcage showed faintly under a layer of flesh. Shoulder blades showed sharp as his forearms were tucked under his chin. Sherlock wanted to take him apart, bone and blood, but they were watched. Instead he leaned forward, tasted that spine with his tongue. Shower gel and a little sweat. 

Jim moaned, tucked his chin further into his chest, baring the back of his neck. Sherlock obligingly licked it, wrinkling his nose at the taste of Brylcreem, then bit down hard. The body underneath him convulsed and his own responded. He worried at the skin and flesh for a few seconds then let go. Moriarty's breathing was noticeably faster.

Sherlock took his own jacket and shirt off, wrenched shoes and socks loose. Moriarty had tipped his head to one side to watch proceedings in the bedroom mirror. Sherlock backhanded him in the face, knuckles hard against the exposed cheek. "Face down."

Jim's face disappeared again into his cradled arms. Sherlock picked up his card knife again. So much damage that he could do. He started down near the base of the spine.m, drew the blade at a diagonal angle between the vertebrae, hard enough to leave a white mark that oozed single drops of blood slowly.

"Lumbar two. Losing your legs would barely slow you down, I imagine. Reduce the number of roles you could play, perhaps, but not the consulting criminal angle."

The edge scraped over the vertebrae, moving steadily upwards.

"Thoracic six. There go the bodily functions. That won't make you any less dangerous though, will it?"

Pricks of red sprang up behind the blade's horizontal cut. Moriarty was absolutely still. Upwards.

"Cervical four. Quadriplegia. Jackpot." This time he cut fast and a little deeper, still superficial and Jim shuddered.

"Would you do it? If I begged you to? The man's voice was high, almost breathless. "Change my life?"

Imprison Jim forever. With one stroke stop everything the man intended to do. Keep him all for himself; Sherlock knew he could do that, all that intelligence, that malignancy, all of Jim Moriarty lying, paralysed from the neck down, waiting for him to get home every night. He was uncomfortably hard now, his cock pushed against his distended trousers, his breathing fast.

Moran would shoot him. It wasn't the only reason to stay his hand, but it was the immediate one.

"No." He stood up on the bed to pull down his trousers. 

Below him Moriarty rolled over to display a flushed face and erection straining against the black trousers. He was licking his lips as he watched Sherlock's exposed cock. "Oh baby," he murmured. "Please. Fuck me with that, honey. Ride me hard." His hips wriggled upwards suggestively, his knees spread.

"Shut up and remove the rest of your clothes." Jim being pornographic was rather disturbing, even though Sherlock knew it was an act. Partly an act. Not that the man didn't want what he was asking for, but this was primarily about trying to throw Sherlock off course. He dropped down again, this time to spread himself across the face up body beneath him, groin to naked groin, hands pinioning Jim's, face to face.

"Open your mouth. Wider. Now keep still." He dipped his mouth to explore, tongue light across the warm lips, then darting in to poke around the mouth at his leisure. Jim tasted of the mint and coffee that he'd concluded his dinner with, and under that the champagne and a hint of rosemary; he'd had roast lamb. His tongue was rough and twitching as Sherlock ran his over it, his teeth smooth.

Sherlock drew his head back slightly. "You can kiss me. Don't move anything else."

Kissing was very good. Moriarty was still perfectly submissive, his tongue wrapping gently around Sherlock's, allowing itself to be pushed around without a hint of resistance as Sherlock shoved and bit and tasted blood. He started to grind his erection against the soft, still stomach underneath him. Jim's eyes were the deepest of browns and deceptively empty of anything but desire as they caught Sherlock's gaze. He wondered what emotion his own suggested to Moriarty.

How much did he trust this role of Jim's? There were sensations that he wanted to experience. There were precautions he could take. He pulled back and sat up.

"Kneel on the floor,"

Moriarty slid down onto the carpet, eyes bright. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed in front of him, facing the door, knees apart. "Hands." He intertwined Jim's pudgy index fingers with his, rested then on his thighs. He could break them both with a twist. "Go on, then."

Moriarty whimpered in a convincing facsimile of eagerness, and his tongue came out to taste the tip of Sherlock's cock before he took it into his mouth. Sherlock's grip tightened around the vulnerable fingers. Heat and wetness and that tight feel, that friction, Jim's eyes wide and looking upwards at him as he fellated; an experience both remarkable and unlikely to be repeated.

He couldn't let himself relax into it. Moriarty was under control, for now, but there was their assumed audience to consider. The door was unlocked and he had no idea what Jim might be signalling to Moran. Sherlock was sure that he could break Moriarty's fingers as a response to the unwanted application of teeth, but as a response to a bullet in the shoulder-no. He'd let go. Moriarty would know that.

Jim pulled back, carefully. "What's the matter, love? Am I doing it wrong?" His tongue ran slowly around his bleeding lips and Sherlock suppressed a twitch. Stopping was definitely sub-optional but he needed to deal with the risk that Moran posed. A dozen possibilities ran through his head but one was tidier that the others. 

"I think you need a bit more practice. Why don't you invite your henchman to join us?"

Moriarty's mouth made a perfect round O, his eyebrows high. "You really are trying to make up for lost time, aren't you, Virgin? I told you I'd put his eyes out."

"That's a risk I'm prepared to take. We really didn't bond."

Moriarty grinned, the mask of submission briefly dropped, then resumed. "Whatever you want, beloved." He tugged one of their entwined hands down a little, started to lick and suck at everything he could reach, both his and Sherlock's. A tongue in his ticklish palm made Sherlock squirm, but his attention was on the door.

Which opened. Moran in the corridor, straight armed, the gun covering Sherlock's chest.


	5. Chapter 5

"Drop the gun," Sherlock suggested firmly.

"Boss?" Moran watched Sherlock over the back of Moriarty's head.

"For heaven's sake!" Jim ripped both hands from Sherlock's grasp with an unanticipated strength and shot across the room to the doorway. The flat of his hand contacted the taller man's face with a loud crack. "Down, boy!"

As Moran slid to his knees Jim seized the gun and tossed it over his shoulder at Sherlock, who had barely had time to start reacting to the situation getting out of his control before he was back in charge again. Moriarty's gift, this time, not his doing and that unsettled him more than anything had since he'd walked down Baker Street.

He had no reason not to kill Sebastian Moran out of hand. He knew that. Jim did. Moran certainly did, the knowledge that he'd been betrayed showing dark on his face as he knelt on the patterned hallway carpet. And he still had a knife. Sherlock gestured with his free hand. "You, there."

Jim settled smiling crosslegged onto the tiger skin. The gun in Sherlock's hand still covered Moran.

"Take out the knife, slowly. Throw it underhand down the hall."

Moran followed his instructions exactly. There might be other concealed weapons. "Strip. Keep both hands in sight."

The plain shirt had been hiding scars. Lots of them. Sherlock was puzzled for a second; there were a couple of bullet wounds but the rest weren't knife or bullet or shrapnel. The three widest and most vivid in pink scar tissue- neck, shoulder, upper arm- were old, deep and near parallel, each disappearing around to Moran's back. 

The pattern clicked. Claws, just far larger than he had been expecting. Adult tiger clawmarks. The story of Moran chasing the animal down a drain suddenly seemed plausible after all.

The others were clawmarks, too, much less deep and many oddly placed, in various states of healing, the most recent a few weeks old. Sherlock studied Moran's face again, found no injuries there. No marks on arms, or legs below the knees. What animal attacks would scar only the torso and thighs? What animal would be given the opportunity to attack at close range over and over?

Moran was naked now, hands outspread. A flush over his upper chest and neck suggested recent sexual arousal, but his cock was becoming more flaccid as Sherlock watched. There had been a smear of dampness on the discarded underwear. Watching Jim prostrate himself in front of Sherlock had turned him on; having a gun pointed at his own head didn't.

"Step into the room and lock the door."

Moran slid the bolt behind him.

"Hands behind your head. Turn round slowly."

The original claws had ripped down to his waist. Muscle knotted under the pale tissue. Sherlock frowned as the man turned back to face him.

"You were running away?" No. Not right at all.

"He was on the ground." Moriarty chipped in. "Faking dead. While the tiger was still playing with the body he rolled over and shot it at close range. There's a bullet hole around here somewhere," He wriggled across the rug, face momentarily buried in the fur.

That particular tiger skin, and Jim rubbing himself up against it as if he were on heat. Moran's scars. The pot of musk. Sherlook looked into the hunter's sharp blue eyes.

"These days you don't always have a gun, though, do you, Sebastian? And the tiger just keeps on playing."

Moran's lips twisted acknowledgement, but he said nothing. Jim giggled. "Our dirty little secrets can't hide from you, Sherlock. Are you shocked? Do you want to rescue him?"

Sherlock snorted. "I've seen you turn your back on him, Jim. And he's not scared of you. Your games are what keeps him here." He spoke again to Moran. "You were right. Our situations are not comparable. I haven't come looking for a way to lose."

Moran shook his head. "No. The only difference between us, Mr Holmes, is that I know what I'm after and I don't pretend otherwise."

Moriarty clapped his hands sharply. "Sebastian! Sherlock is a guest and jealousy is very unattractive. How are you going to make up for your impoliteness?"

Moran's chin had come up; not reluctance but challenge. "Any way he wants." 

"Much better. Come on, Sherlock. We're both utterly at your mercy. Do get on with it!"

Two naked killers and one gun to manage safely. Sherlock was finding that losing his virginity tonight wasn't turning out to be entirely straightforward. He ought to hang onto the gun for the moment, which meant keeping the others at arm's-length. That was fine; he had some curiosity to assuage first.

"How do you do it? Don't tell me you actually wear that thing!"

Moriarty's smile was wide and unstable. "Would you like to play?"

"No." Scars to match Moran's certainly weren't what Sherlock was after. 

"No." Jim cocked his head to one side, considering Sherlock. "But I bet everything I have that doesn't belong to me that you would like to watch, wouldn't you, pet?"

Did he want to watch Jim Moriarty inflict some consensual sexual violence on his employee? It wasn't going to be nice, but he hadn't come here for nice. Or socially acceptable. He'd come to find out more about his adversary, and to stave off boredom. This, he strongly suspected, would assist with both.

"Yes. That will do, for a start."

"Boss!" Deep and reluctant, from Moran, still motionless in front of the door.

Jim sighed theatrically. "Don't be a prude, Sebastian. It's not like you're going to get stage fright; you only have to lie there with your eyes closed, as usual. You'll forget all about him when we get started. I promise you that."

For a second it seemed that Moran might appeal directly to Sherlock, but he thought better of it, just gave a near imperceptible shrug. "Then I need the stuff you dumped in the bottom of the wardrobe. Are you going to shoot me if I move?"

"Not if you're careful about it. Do you need the bed or the floor, Jim?"

"Floor's more authentic, but I'm in the mood for a little luxury tonight." Jim smiled happily at Sherlock. "Tuck yourself away up on those pillows, out of my way."

Sherlock moved all the way back to the headboard of the bed, wrapped the coverlet up around his knees and watched the preparations with interest. Medical supplies were laid out neatly on the desk. The musk grease placed open on the floor by the base of the bed. The curtains were pulled right back so that when the lights were switched off dim moonlight fell on the bed, the room full of dark shadows. There had been a small lamp among Moriarty's possessions that Sherlock guessed must fulfil the same function when the elements didn't oblige. He tucked the gun away under the covers,safe.

There was quiet for a few minutes, just rustling noises in the darkness. Jim doing something with the skin. Then, deep and startlingly close to Sherlock, the snarl of a predator. Moran walked across the room to the base of the bed, close enough that Sherlock could smell his fear-tinged sweat. He drew himself up for one last look then turned and fell face first, arms wide across the wide counterpane. 

Silence for a few seconds, then the snarl again. Across the dark of the bedroom Sherlock could just make out glimpses, tiger stripes camouflaged against the furniture. Then the creature was there in the dim light, nosing at the limp body.

Jim Moriarty dressed up in an old tiger skin. It should have been laughable. Sherlock watched the huge head lift, sniff the air and drop again to its prey and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Somehow Jim had the essence of tiger perfectly, and the instincts of a savannah ape in Sherlock screamed at him to run. What was Moran feeling now?

Cat-like, the animal pulled back a couple of paces, then pounced. A huge paw swiped across Moran's shoulder, leaving three dark stripes across the silvery skin. The head came forward again to sniff at the blood and Sherlock could hear a tongue lapping. It-Jim- reared up on its hind legs to bat at the body a few times again, then seemed to lose interest and wandered a few paces away into the dark, emitting a deep tiger cough. Moran was lying motionless on the bed about three feet from Sherlock, bleeding profusely from half a dozen scratches.

The musk smell was stronger now. The tiger was back, moving faster. It sniffed at the blood, shaking its head, as if agitated, then swung its head downwards, growling low, to nose at Moran's closed thighs. It pawed at one leg, close enough for Sherlock to see the bloody weals left by the claws, until there was space for the massive head to reach his genitals. The growling became louder as it pulled back, turned to snarling as it came forward, crouched over the body, one paw covering his neck. Animal intercourse; jerky, snarling, perfunctory. It-he-was done and the head swung round to look directly at Sherlock.

Sherlock applauded, slowly. "You really missed your vocation, Moriarty. Maybe they'll have a drama club in Broadmoor. You'll be a sensation."

Jim pulled off the huge paws, wriggled out of the fastenings and dropped the skin over the side of the bed, then pushed Moran off to tumble on top of it. He came up to lie with his head against Sherlock's thigh. "Did you really like it?" He tugged the cover down so that he could started licking the outside of Sherlock's leg, all the way down to the ankle ring.

Yes. "Shouldn't you be patching him up?"

Teeth nipped at him, irritated. "Don't pretend to be boring. You wouldn't care one jot if he bled to death down there."

"He will. Today or next time. Eventually."

Moriarty clearly didn't consider that worth responding to. He was right; Sherlock wasn't going to bestir himself to go and check on the gunman's condition, not with Jim nuzzling so promisingly at his hip. He'd waited long enough. He spread his knees wide and Jim moved obligingly between them, his tongue transferring its attentions with barely a pause. 

The smell of musk and blood lingered in the room. He'd never been this aroused, never had the prospect of relief so exquisitely delivered.This was why Sherlock had stayed virgin; only Jim Moriarty could offer him temptation so perfect. A honey trap. A hold over him. It didn't matter. Tonight he'd gorge himself on honey, then he'd escape.

Moran was moving, pulling himself up on the bedpost to watch them, his face bloodless pale. There was a great deal of blood elsewhere but he looked as if he would stay conscious. More than just conscious; one hand was wrapped around his erect cock. He briefly met Sherlock's eyes, his mouth twisted ruefully, then his gaze dropped to the bare raised arse of his employer and stayed there, his hand jerking faster.

Sherlock laughed. "He is," he said to Moran, between breaths, "apparently at my disposal, tonight. Be my guest."

Moran ran his tongue across dry lips, paused, came to a decision. He hauled himself painfully onto the bed, favouring the injured shoulder heavily. Moriarty had stopped moving, head lifted to watch Sherlock, brown eyes blank.

"Don't stop," Sherlock directed him. "I'm sure a man of your remarkable capabilities can accommodate both of us."

A flicker of warning in those eyes, intended for Sherlock to catch, before Moriarty raised an eyebrow, nodded compliance and shifted into a more accessible crouch, face dipping down again to resume licking and mouthing Sherlock. Blood was trickling down Moran's shoulder as he moved up the bed and smoothed a shaking hand over Moriarty's arse. Sherlock watched him push himself up hard and ungracious against Jim, felt the man hiss around his own cock, start to move, reluctantly, along with Moran's uneven thrusts. 

The gunman had his eyes closed, his left hand clamped tight over his injured shoulder as he shoved himself into his boss. Sherlock wondered how far he was going to get without passing out, but Moran seemed determined to take his opportunity in full. Moriarty didn't play turnabout with his minion often, it seemed. Ever. There was going to be trouble later over this; he thought of the two of then fighting and his hand reached out into Jim's hair, tightened to tug him further onto his groin. He'd lost all patience now, all desire for subtlety; he just wanted to climax down Jim Moriarty's throat as Moran hammered into him from behind. 

There, almost there; both hands tight in that gelled hair as he took over the motion, thrusting far faster then Moran. Jim's eyes were huge in the near darkness, watching him as he came hard, laughing, then shoved the man's head away. Moran was grunting now, blood oozing between his fingers as he bent low over Moriarty's back. With one last gasp he collapsed on top of Jim, lay still. Sherlock hoped he'd had all his fun before losing consciousness. He himself was still feeling the aftershocks of orgasm. No matter what ordinary people claimed, he knew sex wasn't usually this good. Worth the wait.

"Get him off me!" Jim was wriggling under Moran's dead weight, eventually managed to roll the man off and sit up, glaring at Sherlock, who was still laughing.

"Well. I should thank you for the invitation. I have enjoyed myself immensely, even if the food was poor." He scooped up the phone from under his pillow, pressed fast dial. "Mycroft? I could do with a lift home." Address unnecessary. He'd left his phone switched on throughout.

His brother's cool voice. "John and I have been having a little chat, Sherlock. You have some explanations to give."

"Not right now." His hand rested on the butt of the gun. 

"In the middle of an incident, are we?"

Moriarty was motionless, listening in. Sherlock flicked him a quick grin; "I suspect I may just have outstayed my welcome."

"You always do. Please extend my heartfelt sympathies to your host. If you make your way to the roof of the swimming pool your lift will pick you up. Try not to make this unnecessarily untidy, Sherlock. There are a great number of civilians on hand and most of them will have camera-phones."

Sherlock thumbed the phone off without replying, slid off the bed to dress, gun still in his hand. Moran was unconscious on the bed. Moriarty's problem. He doubted that Jim would let the man die. 

"I thought you might stay the night, actually. I'd have liked that. Waking up next to you. Breakfast in bed. Sleepy sex in amongst the morning papers. Next time, maybe."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so. Do you? Give my regards to Moran when he comes round. I'll be seeing you." He backed to the door, then out, closing it behind him, and started to run. But the time he'd found his way up to the roof the helicopter was descending. Clambered into his seat, he glanced back to see a short, naked figure standing at the edge of the roof, watching him leave.

His phone was buzzing. Mycroft, wanting those explanations. John would want them too. For a second he considered simply giving them the truth, but neither of them had the capacity to understand. He'd spin something. Leave it open-ended, for next time. As the helicopter flew low over south London he closed his eyes, tired and content.


End file.
